Giving Up the Ghost
by D Veleniet
Summary: As his eyes drew down, his features clouded over until they returned to her face with an expression Clara could never have anticipated. The Doctor looked haunted.


Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or these lovely characters. They sadly belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat.

A/N: With all the stuff floating around about naming your own headcanon, this started as a drabble to answer MY burning question, "Why was Clara's hair curly for her visit to Victorian London/Yorkshire?" :-p It turned into something a bit longer. Set just before The Crimson Horror.

_These boots definitely weren't made for walking._

Yet despite their pinch, Clara still walked a little taller. Though she could never stand this level of restricted movement (or oxygen) for more than a day or two at a time, she liked how the corset set her shoulders back, straightened her spine and even tilted her chin up just a bit. She was a lady, a proper lady. Rounding the corridor, she felt a jolt of excited anticipation thinking about the Doctor's reaction. She wondered if he'd kiss her hand or bow deeply like a gentleman. He might even attempt to waltz her round the console room before they disembarked on their Victorian adventure. She suppressed a chuckle as she imagined him trying to twirl her about, his limbs flailing in all the wrong directions.

Stopping just inside the console room, she paused at the top of the staircase, milking her grand entrance for all it was worth. Figuring he might even offer her a hand to help her down the stairs, Clara cleared her throat to announce her presence.

"Ah – finally dressed then? " The Doctor didn't look up as he fiddled with switches on the console. "Ready for our Victorian –" Spinning around exuberantly, he stopped mid-twirl, his eyes falling on her. As they drew down, his features clouded over until they returned to her face with an expression Clara could never have anticipated.

The Doctor looked haunted.

And then he turned from her with a deliberate air, as if the sight of her somehow pained him.

Stunned, her confidence faltered. "Is something wrong?" She gave her ensemble a once-over, wondering if she'd missed some glaring anachronistic detail that offended his timey wimey sensibilities.

The only sound for a few seconds was switches being furiously flipped, as the Doctor busied himself with the console. "No."

Clara raised a sceptical eyebrow at his back.

"Yes. Your hair. It needs….fixing."

Frowning, she brought a self-conscious hand up to her head, feeling what she thought looked a magical transformation. "How? I looked at all those old photographs – I copied the style right, didn't I?" Patting it, she felt the gathered bun at the back and the way she had swept it from the sides.

"Yes, but for where we're going…" Darting a glance her way, he waved a hand at her distractedly. "It needs something more in front." He gestured vaguely around the top of his head.

From this angle, Clara couldn't be sure whether his gestures were calculated to keep his hand in front of his eyes, as if the mere sight of her continued to cause him grief. Keeping her mounting frustration in check, she mimicked his gesture, swirling her hand in front of her forehead. "What does 'this' mean?"

This only caused him to wiggle his fingers faster, though he now turned his hand towards her, effectively still keeping her blocked from view. "You know…" He was beginning to sound agitated. "The – spirally things. On top."

Clara's Doctor-translation skills finally clicked. "Curls?"

"Yes! Curls. It needs curls." With no reason to look at her, he continued to devote himself to switch-flipping. Clara was even suspicious he had already flipped one of them three times now: on-off-on.

This was getting ridiculous.

"Doctor – none of the photographs showed hairstyles with curls. I'm sure it won't be that much of a –"

"It won't _work_!" The Doctor's sharp reply reverberated into the sudden silence, as the hum of the TARDIS herself paused.

Clara stared, wide-eyed, momentarily speechless at this unexpected outburst.

But his next word was even more bewildering, hushed in its desperation.

"_Please_."

She opened her mouth to protest again, to query this bizarre behaviour further, but something about the set of his shoulders – hunched, like a massive weight was pushing down on him from above, crushing him underneath – and the way he gripped the edge of the console, as though it was the only thing holding him up – stopped her.

"All right." She conceded, keeping her voice soft. "Curls it is, then. I'll need a bit more time, though."

"It's a time machine, Clara – take all the time you need."

One curling iron, sixteen hot rollers and twenty-three pins later, Clara re-entered the console room with trepidation. This time, she was greeted with a kiss on the hand, a sweeping bow and even a flourish as the Doctor led the way to the TARDIS doors. Before he opened them, Clara placed a hand on his arm, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Doctor – you once mentioned you thought that my being a nanny was too Victorian. But a Victorian nanny would be a governess."

The Doctor looked uneasy. "Yes…and?"

"Is that why you didn't like the hair? Because it was too austere? Thought someone might mistake me for a governess?"

To her surprise, the Doctor grabbed her head, kissing her smack in the middle of her forehead. "Exactly. You're just Clara." Keeping his hands on the back of her neck, he stared at her with intense affection, causing a blush to heat Clara's cheeks. "I didn't want _anyone_ mistaking you for a governess."


End file.
